


Week Three - Dreams

by FriendlyCybird



Series: Stanuary 2019 [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Gen, Nightmares, Suicidal Thoughts, if you think there's something else I should tag for let me know, oh also Ducktective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-17
Updated: 2019-01-17
Packaged: 2019-10-11 14:19:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17448614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyCybird/pseuds/FriendlyCybird
Summary: Nightmares are nothing new for Stanley Pines. It's just these particular nightmares seem like they just might be cause for concern.





	Week Three - Dreams

When Stan first remembered exactly how his final confrontation with Bill had gone, he’d relayed the memory victoriously. “...and then I punched the evil little nacho chip right in the eyeball!” 

“Gotta admit,” Dipper said. “I’m a little jealous.” 

“Oh this one…” Stan agreed “This is a memory I’m gonna treasure.” 

So he really didn’t mind reliving that memory in his dreams. Just when it happened three nights in a row, it started to feel a little weird. He told Ford on his way to bed the fourth night. “Just hope I don’t dream about Bill again.” 

“You’ve been dreaming about Bill?” Ford was clearly alarmed. 

Stan sought to reassure. “Just the part where we pulled one over on him and I smashed him to a million pieces.” he didn’t like the way Ford looked at him for a long moment. Seeking out signs of a lie in his face. He wouldn’t find one, as much because Stan didn’t really have noticeable tells as because he wasn’t lying this time. Not really. It was just the one moment over and over again, but sometimes it would distort. There wasn’t a better word for it then that. 

That night the distortion happened after the punch connected. He watched Bill shatter. Watched the flames rise higher. There was a glitch, like an old video cassette. Then suddenly millions of gold pieces flew together from the far reaches of his empty mind and re-formed into a familiar, and unwelcome figure. 

“YOU THOUGHT YOU COULD GET RID OF ME THAT EASILY?”

Stan didn’t bolt upright from dreams often. He had his share of nightmares. With everything he’d seen in his life, the returning memories of times he’d almost died or worse, Stan’s dreams were often unpleasant at best. This was the first time sheer panic had forced him upright upon waking. He gasped for breath a few times before catching it, heart pounding. 

He laid back down after a minute, not the least bit tired. That hadn’t happened, he reminded himself. Bill had been destroyed with his memories. The problem was, of course, that his memories were back. So where was Bill? The question from the dream echoed in Stan’s mind, and with it, the faint sound of that monster’s laugh. 

Somehow, he fell asleep again. Once again, he dreamed of Bill. This time of the heart-stopping moments right before the deal. When he’d wanted to cough, but he needed the tightness in his throat for a convincing imitation. The slow oscillation between two symbols coming to a stop on a Shooting Star. Ford grabbing him by the jacket and Stan finding a thousand tiny things in his performance that weren’t quite right and the cold terror that Bill would see any one of them. The way the stuffed sixth glove finger sat awkwardly alongside the rest as he offered his hand. 

He didn’t remember if the moment that followed was an accurate account of what it had really been like. Maybe he never would and honestly, Stan was okay with that. The feeling of being invaded. Of your very personhood being pushed below the surface and held under, like being drowned in spirit but not in body. The sudden, disorienting, lack of awareness of his body and the even more sudden, reorienting awareness of his mindscape and the high-pitched grating feeling to match Bill’s voice that something here was not his, and not welcome. 

He woke when Bill opened the door. 

Two dreams of Bill in the same night. That was concerning. He told Ford, who was alarmed for a moment before schooling his features into something calm and patient. “Well, it was a traumatic experience for you. The source of all of the damage your mind has suffered. Given your miraculous recovery, we shouldn’t be at all surprised there are a few lingering psychological scars.” 

“Given my miraculous recovery,” Stan answered “Shouldn’t we be worried that’s not all that’s ‘lingering’?” 

Ford was tense and pale and silent for too long before he said “You’re worried Bill has returned with your memories.” Stan nodded simply. Ford exhaled, blowing out a long breath and falling silent again. “Stanley, I have to believe your dreams are just that, dreams. Bill is - was, a capable demon. If he didn’t want his presence known, you wouldn’t be aware of him in any capacity. If he did...we’d have more trouble than simple nightmares.” 

Stan studied Ford for signs as to whether or not he believed his own words. Ford wasn’t a great liar, but he’d grown up telling half-truths. Typically on Stan’s behalf. If nothing had changed, Stan would know it. Should know it. Instead, he found Ford’s expression unreadable. None of the open honesty of their childhood, of course not. Ford was much too guarded for that now. None of the subtle tells of a lie either. Stan didn’t know where they stood, so he said “Alright, but if they turn out to be more than just dreams…” he hesitated, and turned to go, calling the last over his shoulder so Ford wouldn’t have time to react to it. “You’re gonna shoot me in the head again, this time with a real gun.” and Stan was gone. 

That, he was aware, had been a little bit cruel. He didn’t care. He got the message across while conveying it was not up for discussion. Ford was quieter than usual the rest of the day. Stan couldn’t blame him. He wanted to apologize, but he wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t willing to take risks on this subject, and Ford needed to understand that. 

In his dream that night, Ford understood that too well. The fear was only there a moment when he woke, before he began noticing the inconsistencies.The panicked way Ford checked his eyes was lifted straight from his first visit to the Shack decades ago. The rough way Ford had grabbed him and pushed him to his knees and the cold of the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his head were memories that didn’t even involve Ford. The gun, he noted, had been the wrong shape. Like the normal gun he remembered, not his brother’s triangular one. He wondered if in that situation he really would growl out “Sixer, it’s me.” 

“Is it?” Ford hissed, his voice sounding just like a burn felt. “How can I know? You don’t even know! You asked for this!” Stan could hear his brother’s pitch rise, his words speed, panic setting in. 

“Hey, hey, it’s alright…” he said softly. How was he, the one on the ground with a gun to his head, the one doing the comforting? “It’s alright, Ford, you gotta protect the kids.” and why would he say that? He would never say that, he reflected. Not while it was still him. Not without damn good reason. He’d said it though, so that could only mean there was good reason. “Do what you gotta do.” 

Ford was breathing like he’d been crying and Stan wanted to offer comfort. But there was a gun to his head and even though he’d personally just given permission to fire, instinct kept him from moving his hands. “Goodbye, Stanley.” 

Before he could say it back, everything went black. He didn’t even hear the shot.

“Okay.” he admitted to Ford in the morning. “I crossed the line yesterday, I’m sorry.” 

Ford looked startled, then relaxed. “Was your comment malicious? Or were you merely trying to prepare me for an ugly possibility?” 

Stan grumbled a moment, then “That second thing, yeah.” 

“Then there’s no need for apology.” Ford stated. He looked at Stan. “If anything, I should apologize. I’m sorry, Stanley. I won’t be following your demand. Regardless of the circumstances.” 

Stan looked at him, then laughed. “You hear yourself? You’re apologizing for not being willing to murder me. What are we?” he laughed again, and Ford cracked a smile. Stan was still smiling when his laugh died down. “Don’t get me wrong.” he said, serious despite the smile. “I’m still scared. I know too good to be true when I smell it and our little happy ending here reaks. So be careful. Don’t...go outta your mind careful or go shooting without notice but. If it’s ever...you know. A choice. You know what I want.” 

The way Ford looked at him then was uncomfortable. It was soft and open and something right on the edge of a smile stayed on his lips and Stan felt the weight of it. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Ford said after a moment. Stan decided he didn’t want to dig into whatever led to that comment and mumbled something about cooking for them. 

Stan still had nightmares after that, but they were about other things. Sometimes, they were memories. Sometimes they blurred memory and intangible fear. Bill was a subject sometimes, but often enough he wasn’t that Stan began to feel his anxiety about that particular series of dreams ease. Then one night, he had a good dream. 

The kids were back for another summer. Dipper was noticeably taller than Mabel now, and made a show of rejecting Stan’s offer to mock her with him. Soos in the Mr. Mystery suit, but still sitting on the floor at Stan’s feet as they all watched an episode of Ducktective together, which proceeded to take over the dream and give Stan the exact series of plot twists he hadn’t realized he wanted from the show. For some reason, he still woke up startled. Breathing labored. It was only with a moments reflection that he realized he’d spent the entire dream anxiously waiting for something to go wrong. 

He knew what to do to keep that from coming true. 

Stan laid back down, lesson learned for the moment. Then, after several moments silence, he groaned aloud. 

For the life of him, even minutes after the dream ended, Stan couldn’t remember those Ducktective twists his subconscious had made up!


End file.
